


Frankenstein

by LavenderLizards



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Confessions, Danger, F/M, Plot, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29149482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderLizards/pseuds/LavenderLizards
Summary: Malcolm and his team work to catch the Frankenstein Killer who is murdering his victims and taking one piece at a time. Stymied by his lack of a clear profile, Malcolm goes to Dr. Whitly for help. He's armed with his father's help and his own wit, but can he stop the killer before he comes for someone on the team? >>Eventual Malcolm/Dani<<
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

“The Frankenstein killer?” Martin said incredulously. “Six syllables is far too long and the moniker isn’t nearly catchy enough,” he chuckled. “Plus, the name simply doesn’t make sense. He should be named Victor - that’s who made Frankenstein.”

“I didn’t come here for naming suggestions.”

“No, of course not my boy,” Martin stepped forward into a golden slice of afternoon sunlight. “You came because you needed my expertise,” the doctor nearly purred. 

Of course he was tickled to be needed, and even more delighted that it was his boy who needed him. Not wasting a moment, he raised a pointed finger and spun on his heel.

“It’s a gruesome case.”

“Aren’t they all?”

The victims’ limbs had been torn asunder in some Frankenstein-esque attempt to build a new being from scratch. The perpetrator was likely a male in the medical field who was in his mid 40s, but his motivation was eluding the profiler.

Was he incapable of producing life so he felt the need to create one? Were the motivations religious - was he trying to play god? Was he just a lonely, twisted fan of Mary Shelley? Or was he a sort of sculptor who felt that he had no control over his own life so he would try to find some as an artist using human flesh and bone in substitution of clay and a kiln? Maybe he was just overrun from having toiled in the medical field and found some sort of sick release in killing people and taking a limb or an organ to go.

There was no reason for this case to be so much more difficult than the others and Malcolm couldn’t help but mentally berate himself for not being able to draw the quick conclusions that expediently closed cases. 

Running out of directions to turn, he found himself headed in his father’s direction. 

Maybe there was something in the surgical choices the Frankenstein Killer made that could help their efforts to catch him. Who better to know about twisted minds and medical expertise than The Surgeon?

“I looked at the items you had sent over,” Martin walked towards his desk, his footsteps silent when Malcolm felt that they ought to have been loud and clacking. It was dangerous...a killer in silent shoes.

In moving to his desk, an unspoken invitation had been extended to the profiler, but Malcolm was wary of accepting. Rather than crossing the line as his father was silently tempting, he simply walked along the crimson barrier, eyes following the cardigan clad man who came to a stop behind his pushed in desk chair. 

A lump formed in Malcolm’s throat. 

The picture he was observing seemed too quaint, too domestic. His father’s familiar figure behind a desk, head bent, hands opening a sketchbook. 

His hair was damp as though he’d just taken a shower and the scent of soap followed him. 

Interestingly, he had not addressed the deep cut to Malcolm’s brow that he had received two days ago when the team arrested the Penthouse Killer. Martin had barely even glanced at it, and yet, Malcolm was openly staring at Martin. 

He wasn’t aware that he was staring, but Martin was. 

“I pored over the crime scene photos and the photos of the victims. All male, all white, all young, very close skin tones. He’s trying to make his created creature...well...whatever his version of handsome is.”

“If he was going for congruity, why not just kill one person and use them as his specimen.”

“Oh...where’s the fun in that?” Martin’s voice dipped as he turned his head and smiled darkly at Malcolm. 

Bright tried but mostly failed to suppress a shudder that started as a succession of rapid blinks and slipped down his spine like a liquid, shaking his shoulders as it went. 

The artist looked back down at his creation, gathering up several sketches with a delicate hand and opening a desk drawer to pull out a manilla folder. He spent a long time in the desk drawer, appearing to root around before finally emerging with what he sought. He deposited the drawings in the folder and pulled the little bronze tabs through the hole, flattening them. 

“They won’t allow me to have fixative spray in here,” he said sadly. “So please be careful with these. I would hate for them to smudge.” 

He stepped up to the line and regarded his son as if he were a mirrored reflection of himself. “I made a drawing of what the...creature...that he’s building would look like at this point. He’s missing the right foot, the right hand and the head. I think your best shot at catching him is when he goes for a head.” 

“So I’m just supposed to let two more people die in the meantime?” Malcolm breathed. “Why can’t he just take a hand and a foot and leave those people alive?” he murmured more to himself than his father.

“You know why,” came the syrupy dark response. “It is in his nature to kill. He enjoys it. Maybe he even thinks that he’s stealing the youth, health, and power from each of these individuals and imbuing his creature with it.”

He gave a half nod and tried not to imagine sawing into flesh, the scent of aresoled blood hanging on the air. He tried not to think of Endicott lying lifeless in his living room, unseeing eyes fixed to a point on the ceiling.

“And you didn’t come across any patterns? Anything to link his victims?” 

“Beyond age and skin tone? No. It appears to be quite random. 

A beat of silence passed between them. Malcolm licked at his upper lip, Martin blinked a few times, the heater whooshed around them as dust specks floated away in the afternoon light. Time twisted, shaped and reformed, seeming to make a loop. Even when Malcolm was nowhere near Claremont...a part of him remained here...trapped with the beast.

“Malcolm..” his tone shifted, tinted with something like worry. 

The young man looked up, wide blue eyes sharp and expectant. 

“You’re a young white male who is within the age limit, who is hunting this killer, and...if I might add... who has an exceptional head.”

“You think he’ll come for me?” Malcolm swallowed. He had already considered this, but seeing concern tint Martin’s words made his insides twist.

“Probably,” he grit his jaw, and even beneath his wild beard, Malcolm could see the tendons there straining as Martin prepared his next words. “I so wish…” he started but stopped.

It seemed impromptu, but Malcolm knew better. He knew that Martin planned every word, every expression, even his aborted sentences. This was theater and Claremont was his stage. 

“I so wish I could protect you,” he shuffled forward, as far as he could go. 

Perhaps Martin was a black hole, because Malcolm felt himself being pulled forward, tempted towards the event horizon. The killer had his own gravity, his own destructive beauty that could be so wholly intoxicating. From the moment Malcolm walked back through that door after a decade away, he could already feel the pieces of him that had cracked begin to be pulled away and consumed by The Surgeon. The scariest part was that...it would be easy to just let him...let him destroy him completely.

“I would burn the entire world to the ground to protect you,” he lifted a hand. 

It was only when the hand was an inch from touching his face that Malcolm swallowed and his eyes went wide. 

“Y-your handcuffs…”

“I freed a hand, I had to Malcolm...just to…”

“No,” Malcolm’s feet felt heavy as lead, but he managed only one step back. Martin couldn’t escape the tether. He couldn’t cross that barrier.

So that’s why getting the folder in his desk drawer had taken so long.

“I would never hurt you Malcolm. Never,” he said, deadly serious. “You know when I’m lying, we established that, so look at me. Weigh my words. Hear me when I say this: I would *never* hurt you, my boy.” 

A frown had gathered in the doctor’s eyes, storm clouds of discontent shading his features. 

“I can reaffix my cuffs if that would make you more comfortable.”

”Why did you take one hand out to begin with?” He was genuinely curious. 

“I just...wanted to touch. Wanted to feel that cut at your eyebrow,” his eyes glided over the skin trying to heal and it felt like a physical touch. “Three stitches. It looks like it was done well, but I could have done better.” 

“Of course you could have,” he meant the words to drip with sarcasm, but they came out sincere. He pictured himself, blood trying to spill into his eye, coming to his father. He imagined sitting in the oak desk chair and his father seated on the desk with a First Aid kit next to him. He would be crowded close, their faces in orbit of one another, Martin’s minty breath breezing over his skin. Would it feel cold against the hot blood?

His hand would tilt Malcolm’s chin as he cleaned the wound and then set to stitch it up. Would each of his glances feel like the peeling back of his skin rather than patching it together? Was Martin his Victor Frankenstein? Molding him? Making him into a monster if he wasn’t one already?

“If you had done it, stitched me up I mean - would you use anesthetic?” 

It was the wrong thing to say. The last thing Malcolm needed was to go down the rabbit hole in the presence of his father. He meant to say, ‘yes, reaffix your handcuffs or I’ll leave,’ but he didn’t.

“Depends...would you want anesthetic?” 

It felt so hard to breathe, almost like Malcolm had been plunged beneath the watery surface of Martin’s green blue eyes and forgotten how. 

“No. I’d want to feel it.” 

A light flickered in Martin’s eyes.

“My brave boy,” Martin purred. The praise made some dark delight hidden between Malcolm’s ribs unfurl. 

He found himself swaying too far forward as Martin’s hand came up to his cheek. The touch was barely there, but jolting with the finesse of a lightning bolt and just as powerful. It very well may have scorched Malcolm alive, burned him where he stood. He imagined himself lit on fire, the alarms at Claremont blaring as he disintegrated beneath the power that Martin wielded. It was not Biblical power. Quite the opposite. 

The killer let out a breath that he may have been holding for twenty years as he felt the smooth skin on the side of Malcolm’s face with his thumb. Slowly and deliberately, he skated the pads of his fingers over the planes of his boy’s face. 

The act was far too slow. Malcolm could practically feel Martin committing everything to memory. The smell of his cologne, the flecks of deeper blue in his cerulean eyes, the feel of his flesh, the rhythm of his breathing. He wondered how many times Martin had considered killing him.

The thumb finally reached the stitches, ghosting over them with an odd sort of reverence. Malcolm found himself lulled by warmth radiating from Martin and wholly caught off guard when the doctor pressed his thumb into the cut, destroying two days of healing so that he could watch the blood, red as pomegranate and precious as garnet, spill over that porcelain skin. 

Malcolm sucked in a breath and moved his right hand to Martin’s chest to push him away, but his hand simply rested there, right in the spot where he had stabbed him. 

He looked down at his hand and a snarl tried to form on his face. 

“You want to press into the wound...watch me bleed...do it all over again,” Martin smiled a shark’s smile. “Tell me Malcolm,” he paused for weight, wetting his lips, “how often do you think about that moment? Re-live it? Wish that you had been just a few centimeters off in any direction?”

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” he said in a not-very-convincing near whisper. 

“I know you weren’t, but oh how you wanted to,” Martin grinned as if Malcolm had just shown him a good report card. He dragged his thumb through the blood that had slid onto the peak of Malcolm’s cheek and imagined the Zygomatic bone beneath the wrapping paper flesh. The shout of red was so beautiful against his marble skin. 

Before he could lose himself in thought or wordplay, Martin again brought his thumb to the wound and dug in, eliciting more blood.

Malcolm reacted by pressing his thumb into where he’d stabbed Martin. “W-what are you doing?” he swallowed but his throat was bone dry. 

“I’m making your head a little less desirable to take,” Martin turned his thumb and let the side of his nail catch on the top of the slice, pulling it upward and lengthening it. 

“It hurts.”

“Not as much as a guillotine or a saw would,” Martin’s head was tilted back, watching his own efforts.

The crimson rivulets wound down Malcolm’s face and slid off his jawline like tears. He was wearing a two thousand dollar suit and could practically feel his tie and collar and jacket absorbing the liquid. The red would be so bright on the white dress shirt; but on the navy tie and jacket it would appear black. 

“I don’t want you to disfigure yourself, but this might buy you some time if he kills his next two victims quickly. He won’t want your head until it’s healed and even then, a scar might be enough to deter him.”

“Or attract him. Who knows.”

“Who knows.”

He could feel his skin pulling and winced.

“You undid my stitches.”

“I did.” 

Finally, The Surgeon’s hand stopped agitating the wound. He took his bloodied hand and ran it through Malcolm’s hair. Whether it was an effort to clean off his own hand or further dirty the profiler, Malcolm did not know.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed this, I should take these and go. There’s no time to waste,” he looked down at the manilla folder still clutched in Martin’s chained hand. 

“You should,” Martin transferred the folder to his free hand, getting bloody fingerprints all over the yellowish brown surface. 

“I have no doubt that you’ll find this...Frankenstein Killer…” he said with obvious disdain at the name. “Malcolm Bright may not be able to defeat such an adversary,” he tucked a stray lock of Malcolm’s bloody hair behind his ear. “But Malcolm Whitly is quite capable,” he smiled. 

The novacane words had numbed Malcolm’s reaction and all he did was stand and watch as Martin brought his free hand to his waist and used his other to secure it back within the cuffs. The metal clicked as each tooth passed through the stainless steel maw. 

“If you can get out…” he started, but stopped, forgetting for a moment that this too was his adversary. 

“Maybe someday,” Martin’s eyes glittered in the vanishing light of the setting sun. “It’s all about timing,” he handed the folder over and Malcolm took it. 

Blood still cascaded down Bright’s face and he had to wipe at it with the back of his sleeve because it tickled. If his mother could see, she would pitch a fit. And if she knew how it comforted him to smell that memory-worn coppery scent she would do more than pitch a fit. Sometimes he wondered if he was destined for this place, for a room right next to his father's. It was one of his greatest fears. 

He turned from the leashed animal and walked towards the door, his own footfall clacking loudly. His father’s voice made him stop and turn.

“In the book, as you know, Frankenstein resolves to commit suicide as his creator dies.” 

“This man’s creation isn’t coming to life,” he offered.

“Of course not. But maybe rather than the anticlimactic pneumonia that subsumed the creator, Victor Frankenstein, you could deliver a more...intriguing and deadly end to the story.” 

“You want me to kill him?” 

“Does he not deserve to die after killing 11 people?”

“You killed 23.”

“I did...and I would dare say that if he had imagined his end, he would imagine dying with his creation, not slowly crumbling to time and insanity inside a cell.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

Martin chose not to address the question. “You see death as more severe than imprisonment, a greater punishment.”

“Isn’t it?” 

Martin folded his bloody hands in front of him.

“No. It isn’t.” 

The door clicked and Mr. David pushed it open. Malcolm ingested Martin's words and ignored Mr. David's wide-eyed concern at the state of his bloody face. He held the folder close to his chest as he walked down the hallway, towards the inevitable confrontation with the killer that awaited him.


	2. Chapter 2

“If you stare at that board any harder, you’re going to pop a vein,” Danni gave him a slight smile as she entered the room, the blinds on the door jingling softly as she shut the door.

Malcolm only sighed and shook his head. He always warmed when Dani graced him with her presence, like coming in out of the cold. 

“Profile not going well?”

“No,” he ran a hand through his hair and sighed, turning towards the table to sit on its edge. 

“Are you going to tell me what the hell happened to your head?” 

He huffed out a soundless laugh and brought a hand to the bandage on his forehead. For being such a small wound, the pain emanating from it was remarkable. “I...uh...ripped my stitches,” he offered a half smile that reeked of disingenuousness. He could still feel the weight of his father's hand on his face and the intensity that radiated from his stare. 

“You know what Bright?” she came to sit on the lip of the table with him. He turned towards her, both dreading and hopeful of whatever might come next. “I’m really tired of you lying to me,” she said quietly, without disdain or disappointment. It was spoken simply as a fact.

They were so close that he could feel the heat from her arm next to his. He swallowed thickly as a spike of adrenaline coursed through his bloodstream and quickened his already rapid heartbeat. 

He didn’t want to lie to Dani, but he never knew how much to tell her...how far to let her in. Hell, it took most of his mental power just to figure out how to play that game with his father. Martin seemed to consume the majority of his mental energy, and the rest was devoted to the case, so what did that leave Dani? 

He wasn’t even sure why she was his friend. If he wasn’t a part of the team, would they be friends? Now that she was in his life, he couldn't imagine losing her. He certainly wanted to be friends - more than friends - but he saw no benefit to her. He was a human disaster, a malediction whispered into the world by his father. Why would she want him?

He never felt good enough for her so he tamed his enthusiasm and affection for her.

“I-I’m sorry,” he half glanced over at her, letting his eyes descend down her curls and catch on her raspberry lipstick. 

Taking a deep breath to steele himself, he continued.

“As you know, I went to see Dr. Whitly…”

She pushed off the table and turned towards him quickly, putting a hand on his arm. “Did he hurt you?” her eyes were wide and he felt a flush of arousal roll through him at her welcome concern. Watching her be protective over him did something to his heart.

“I...it was sanctioned.”

“Explain.”

“He’s worried that the Frankenstein Killer is going to come for my head...after he gets his foot and hand of course.”

“So…”

“So make the cut I already had worse. It might be enough to deter him from wanting my head just yet. Maybe he’ll want it to heal first, or not want it at all.”

“This is insane,” she removed her hand from his arm and he felt the heat of it seeping away. God, did he want that warmth back. She lifted her fingers towards his head and he waited for the pads of her fingers to touch the bandage, but she stopped herself before touching him. 

“If you’re in direct danger, you should be taken off the case,” she folded her arms. 

“What? No!” he nearly screeched. “God, please don’t go to Gil and tell him that I’m in danger.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it’s just a theory! It may not even be plausible!”

She shook her head. “I swear Bright…” she ran a hand slowly over her tired face. Once her sigh dissipated, they were left with nothing more than the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead and the muted sound of traffic outside. 

It was late. The precinct was rapidly emptying.

“You scare me to death you know,” she admitted with a weighted stare. 

Her words caught him entirely off guard.

“What do you mean?” his stomach dropped with dread. Did she think he was violent? Unhinged? Unstable?

“Some part of me just feels that...that one of these days we’re going to face a case that’s going to kill you.” 

Oh.

Malcolm’s heart skipped a beat, thudding heavily against his ribcage as it kickstarted. 

“You rush into danger like it’s nothing Malcolm.”

He bit his lip and dipped his head.

“I get that you *need* cases. You need distractions. You need to make a positive difference in the world, maybe because you feel the need to make up for what your father’s done.”

His head snapped up, blue eyes wide and shocked.

Is that why he did what he did? Or was it the exhilarating flood of feeling from putting himself in mortal danger? 

Or was it that his depression had deepened so severely that he didn’t quite care if a case cost him life or limb? 

All he knew was that she was right. He needed new cases like fish needed water. It was built into him, sewn into his DNA and woven into his personality. 

“It’s as if you like hurting yourself,” she whispered.

He grit his jaw, feeling his tendons pull and his teeth grind. 

“I mean...do you really need to go and visit The Surgeon? Or do you feel obligated? Or are you using it to hurt yourself?” 

He shook his head, too overwhelmed by the onslaught of questions. These were the things that kept him up at night, the things that not even his therapist could unravel because he hadn’t unraveled them himself. 

“All I know is that I don’t want to be working on a case with you,” she paused, her throat tight, “and find you dead.” 

“Dani…” he said sadly, taking a step forward. 

“No Bright. There’s nothing you could say to assuage my fears. You’re brilliant but you’re reckless. I’m already worried for JT and I just...I can’t handle wondering if you’re going to be okay constantly.”  


“I can take care of myself.”

“Can you? Do you know your limits Bright? Because if the Frankenstein Killer is actually coming for you, then you need to recuse yourself from this case and get a protective detail.”

“Or I could catch him.” 

“How? We have so few leads...hardly any evidence...and no real profile on him.”

Malcolm turned from her and ran a hand through his hair. The board stretched out in front of him with gruesome photos of the victims. The case had gotten out of hand and the FBI was involved as well. 

It was just another cut ripped open - having to work with the FBI and be reminded of all he had lost. 

“It’s impossible to leave so little evidence…”

“Unless the bastard’s a genius,” Dani stood next to him and looked at the board. 

“You saw Dr. Whitly...did anything come from that?” she looked at him to gauge the words he was about to speak. 

The familiar scent of Claremont came creeping back to his memory. He could still hear the door locking behind him, the soft shuffle of Martin’s feet on the concrete floor. He could still feel his father’s hand upon his face and it made his stomach twist. 

“We spitballed some ideas,” he said, choosing his words carefully. They had gone back and forth a bit about the case, but somehow, that seemed so secondary to the real meat of his visit. 

Behind him on the table, conspicuously tossed next to the speaker in the middle of the table, sat the envelope that Martin had given him. He hadn’t opened it yet and he didn’t want to bring it up to Dani just yet either. 

It felt as though it had actual gravity, pulling at him, whispering from behind him like a secret. 

Why couldn’t he just tell her about it? 

“I’ll keep going over things and trying to form a clearer profile,” he half smiled. It was a weak attempt at normalcy that she could no doubt see through. 

“Please don’t overwork yourself Malcolm.”

Her hand was back on his shoulder. 

“With certain cases, it takes so much out of you that it’s like...like you give a piece of yourself away just to solve the case, just to stay sane.”

“I don’t have many pieces of my sanity left to give,” he chuckled dryly, “is that what you’re saying?” 

This time, he smiled and she smiled back genuinely. 

“It’s a short walk from genius to madness Malcolm,” she moved away from him and towards the door. “Focus on the good just as much as you do on the bad. Remember that you have us - the team. You have Jess and Ainsley. You have good things too.” 

“I know,” he gave a conciliatory smile and nod as her hand reached for the knob. 

He wanted to ask her to stay. 

He wanted to bask in her presence with the same fierce desire that one has on a wintry day to avoid getting out of bed. She was comforting and strong, a beacon in his darkness. But he had always found that light was quite difficult to grasp. 

“And remember, I’m just a phone call away.” 

“I know.” 

She opened the door and slipped back out into the precinct. 

Left alone, he sighed once more and let his chin drop to his chest. 

It was easier to think about the case when she wasn’t there. He didn’t have to constantly gauge his reactions or school his features into place. He couldn’t help the fact that every interaction - with everyone - felt like an act to some degree. 

It was exhausting.

It was masking. 

He turned to the table and walked around its corner. Coming to his usual seat, he plopped down heavily and slid a hand out to retrieve the folder. 

He pulled the little tabs up and opened the envelope, turning it upside down and letting the contents slide out. 

There were several sketches.  


A lump formed in his throat as he observed the delicate and skilled touch that had created these near masterpieces. 

They would be masterpieces if it weren’t for the grizzly content that they depicted. 

He had drawn what the creature would look like at this stage - minus a foot, a hand, and a head. 

He moved the top drawing aside and gasped at the second. 

It was a near replica of the first drawing, only this time, the foot and hand had been added - sewn on - and so had a head. Malcolm’s head. 

The rendering was flawless. So spot-on that it literally took Malcolm’s breath away. The only thing it was missing was the scar that graced his temple. 

He sucked in a deep breath and listened to it shudder as he let it go. 

He moved the second sketch aside. 

The third drawing showed what Martin imagined to be the killer. It was a plain looking man with a few light creases gracing his face. He was wearing a plastic suit and using a knife to cut off his latest victim’s hand. 

The killer’s features were plain, ordinary. His face was turned towards his work and his eyes were cast down at his own actions. 

Malcolm’s brain tickled with possibilities. 

Maybe the killer didn't see himself as a killer at all, but as some sort of savant who was giving new life to his victims in the form of his creation.

Having looked over the sketch thoroughly, he turned it over and was surprised to find writing on the back.

“A thing for hands,” was scrawled there. 

“Heh,” his puff of a laugh sounded so loud in the quiet space. 

That’s what Hector had pointed out in group therapy at Claremont, and after the statement was made, his father had given him an odd look. 

Perhaps he did have a thing for hands. 

He turned it back over and put the drawing aside. 

That appeared to be all. 

Sitting back in the uncomfortable chair, he thought about what all of this meant. It was like fumbling through the dark in an attempt to assemble a puzzle one couldn't see. 

After a moment of silent thought, he gathered up the sketches and prepared to return them to the envelope. He stopped. A corner of paper was peeking out from the envelope. 

Tugging on it, he freed a fourth sketch on an odd size of paper. 

When it came into his view, his breath caught in his lungs and his heart ached. 

It was a drawing of himself and Martin, side by side. 

It looked exactly like his Harvard graduation photo where his mother stood to his right, beaming, and he smiled at the camera with his cap on his head and his diploma in hand. It looked precisely like that photo, except that Jess was gone and Martin was drawn in. 

Again, the attention to detail was stunning. The illusion of light glinted off Martin’s curls, his beard was more trimmed, his eyes were soft. Pride radiated from the drawing of Martin. And Malcolm himself looked perfect, down to the creases in his gown. He looked just as he had in the actual photo of he and mother, only...his smile was wider - warmer and more genuine. 

He didn’t realize that he was crying until a tear fell from his face and hit the bottom right corner of the drawing with a splat. 

His soul clenched in that familiar ache that he’d experienced since he was eleven. It was a twisting pain, a hollowness that could swallow him whole if he let it. 

Some nights he did let it, drinking too much bourbon and taking too much Xanax until the world became a blur and he sank into the abyss of fitful sleep. When his nightmares would wake him up in the middle of the night, his pillow was always damp with sweat and tears. 

With shaking fingers, he returned the three case-related sketches to the envelope and kept the graduation sketch separate. 

The team didn’t need to know about that one. No, that one was his to keep.


End file.
